I'll be home for Christmas 3  Goniff
by Kaglen
Summary: The third in this short series of Christmas stories


Goniff looked around the room from the comfort of a leather wing-backed chair. This was his favourite room, with panelled walls, carved plasterwork ceilings and furnishings far more luxurious than he had ever known. A Christmas tree stood in the corner; the long treasured baubles glimmered in the firelight from a large log burning in the grate. The only noises were the gentle tick of a long case clock and the crackling of the fire. He had just eaten a very good lunch and sighed with satisfaction as he took a sip of port from the glass beside him. It was Christmas Day and now he needed to have time alone with his thoughts of times past, of family and of friends.

What would his old mates from the East End think of him, Rodney Lane, in a 'toff's' house? Albeit courtesy of the United States Army, but that did not detract from the fact his present home was a mansion. As a boy, home was a very modest, rented 'two up and two down', but his parents always tried to get Christmas treats for him and his young sister Joyce. Their stockings would contain nuts, an orange and maybe a spinning top for him and a dolly for Joyce. A fresh lick of paint for the top and a new set of lovingly knitted clothes for the dolly would hide the fact the toys were second hand but as kids they didn't know and would not have cared. In fact he had few cares as a youngster and knew nothing of the daily struggle his parents faced to earn enough money because his Dad's wage on the London Docks was so unreliable. When his father did have a healthy pay packet he would, like many others, celebrate in drink but all credit due, he never laid a finger on his family. Goniff remembered only too well that most of his mates had bruises and their mothers often sported a black eye to show for a 'good' wage.

The blond shook his head, what would life have been like if Joyce had lived? She died aged 7 of influenza and things were never the same, his mother was naturally grief stricken but his father was devastated. He had been gassed in the First World War and only held onto his job at the docks because of past friendships. After Joyce died he seemed to give up and rarely worked again. The effects of the gas attack came to the fore and even now Goniff could hear the dreadful wheezing sounds as his father battled to get the air into his damaged lungs. He shuddered at the memory and lost himself in the pictures amongst the flames.

His mother had to take in washing, in his mind's eye he saw her, bone tired with reddened, sore hands but there was always more washing to do and the income for all that work a mere pittance. Rodney, aged 10, had to grow up fast and help to provide for the family, he soon realised that his job as an errand boy after school was not enough, so he began to steal. It started with food, he could justify that, they had to eat and if Mum ever guessed where the extras came from she never said. Then he started to steal from stores and began to enjoy the challenge and the thrill. Eventually he learnt the art of the pickpocket and the rest was history, thieving became his living.

The Englishman wondered what Mum would say if she could see him. His thoughts turned to New York; his widowed mother had moved to the United States to be with him. She would be up and about making herself a cup of tea in her shabby but spotlessly clean apartment. He had been amazed at how well she had settled in the huge city that had now become home, but where was his home? He wasn't sure any more. He'd been into London many times over the past few years but the Luftwaffe had reduced the East End he knew to rubble and V-2 rockets were still destroying the capital indiscriminately. He loved England and London, battered as she was, but was it still home? He was sure of one thing; he was not going to make prison his home again. He had the chance to make something of himself. Garrison had given him that chance and he had good friends in Casino, Actor and Chief, particularly Casino. Home was wherever you made it, people were more important.

The man rose to his feet and picked up the poker from the hearth; he stabbed at the burning log and watched a fountain of red and gold sparks tumble into the grate. He sat down, took another sip of his port and settled back into the chair. The others knew he needed solitude from time to time but they did not know just how many hours he had spent in that room when sleep would not come before a mission or when the nightmares kept him awake on their return. They'd come back from their last one three days ago and there had been many times during the assignment when he was convinced he wouldn't live to see Christmas. Garrison had been missing for weeks but had managed to make contact and they had been sent to Europe to get him out. A German counter offensive was underway and the Lieutenant had been injured. They managed to get him back safely to England but the last report from the hospital was that he was still unconsciousness.

Goniff had been surprised that he and his colleagues hadn't been sent back to prison once Garrison was declared 'missing'. The 'brass' as Casino would say, must have forgotten about them, but someone remembered and they were tasked to get their 'Warden' back to safety. Although there was fear and uncertainty, they all wanted to go because whatever happened, they would always be grateful to the Lieutenant for having faith when others had not and for giving them all a chance.

There was that word again 'chance', a chance to do what? To prove that they could make a difference, to prove they were worthwhile human beings not just 'cons' or 'hoods'. Yes they had been using their criminal skills working with Garrison but they had been using them for the defeat of Nazism and for peace. All over the world today people were singing Christmas carols about peace. Would it ever come?

The long case clock began to chime Goniff automatically looked at his watch it was time to go. He got to his feet and smoothed down his uniform, his East End pals would be surprised to see him in the uniform of a country that was his by adoption only and as for Mum, well she would be proud and justifiably so. Okay so he wasn't a real soldier but he had fought his war in the best way he could and done a pretty good job, so far. Next time he saw the Warden he would remind him again that he was not a soldier, not that the man would listen. Goniff smiled, in that moment he was sure that Garrison would recover and all would be well.

He went to the door and turned to look again at the room that was his sanctuary. He'd had his little wallow in his memories but there was no lingering self-pity, it wasn't in his nature and the future would always look after itself. It was time to join in with the festivities again, with a light step Goniff headed for the kitchens.

"Hello Cookie, those for me." He addressed the Sergeant in charge with his usual lack of deference and picked up a big basket of cakes and mince pies, plus a large metal container full of ice cream. The usually stern cook smiled.

"Yeah, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Give 'em a good time will ya!"

"Course we will, they'll love these. Thanks a lot mate."

The blond left the kitchen by the back door, munching the extra mince pie he had taken from the silver tray set for Officers' teas. He set off to meet Casino; the treats he carried would go down well at the kids' party in the village. It would be the first taste of ice cream for some of the little ones, strange how something so small would make such a difference. He stepped out and began to whistle a Carol, the war wasn't over but he had a lot to be thankful for, his whistling soon turned to singing. "_God rest ye Merry Gentlemen let nothing you dismay_."

"Merry Christmas Yank." called a Land Army girl passing by on a bicycle.

Goniff grinned, if only she knew. He returned her greeting, cheerfully.

"Merry Christmas."


End file.
